


A Model of Decorum and Tranquility

by TheSinsOfAnAngel



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alright listen yall, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Canon Divergence, Chess, Chess Metaphors, Chess in Concert (2008), Cold War, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Hetalia Countries Using Human Names, Kennedy Center Chess (2018), M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, RusAme, Slow Build, Slow Burn, but i had to to make it fit, but i swear this musical is so good, gratuitous use of lyrics, i know this is super niche, i totally change the story from the musical, it's a chess (the musical) au, technically, this is lowkey a crack fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:34:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24873136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSinsOfAnAngel/pseuds/TheSinsOfAnAngel
Summary: Yes, chess. That is what they are here for. The World Chess Championship, in fact. It is a very fitting match for the time they are in, Elizabeta thinks. This is just another way for the two superpowers to get their jabs in at each other.-----------------OR: the one where Ivan and Alfred are rival chess players who have more in common than they think.(Chess: The Musical!AU. Alfred is Freddie, Ivan is Anatoly, and I change the canon material to suit my needs)
Relationships: America/Russia (Hetalia)
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter One

Merano is very, very cold this time of year.

No, not the actual weather, the actual weather is quite pleasant, really. Instead, the frigidity seeped in with every step the Soviet embassy took into the crowded foyer of the conference center. And while some may think that this would be combated by the fiery hot Americans, if their dirty looks were anything to go by, the patriots were just as icy. 

Cold War indeed. 

Although at this point in time the Russians seemed to be at a disadvantage, as they were missing their star martyr, Ivan Braginsky. Regardless, hot-headed American superstar Alfred Jones kept the tension palpable with his scathing remarks to the press. 

“Alfred, you need to keep a cool head. For god’s sake they’re pulling you to shreds in five different languages! We haven’t even started the tournament and they already hate us.” Elizabeta Héderváry tried to calm the situation, but even she could admit that those newspaper journalists were leaning a little too far into his alleged “bad boy” reputation. However, she refused to voice those thoughts. As Alfred’s Second she was responsible for keeping him in check. Lord knows he couldn’t do it himself. It seems those rumours about his reputation were not that far off after all. Although, perhaps he is entitled to a bit of--well--entitlement. Alfred is the chess world champion after all. 

Elizabeta looked around the room, scanning for a place to talk privately. They were waiting for Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefoy, delegates on behalf of Global Television, the company sponsoring Alfred’s match. She didn't like the two very much, but they needed the money. Chess didn't pay the bills half as well as one might think it would, even at their highly competitive level. 

Yes, chess. That is what they are here for. The World Chess Championship, in fact. It is a very fitting match for the time, Elizabeta thinks. This is just another way for the two superpowers to get their jabs in at each other. 

Alfred sat up a little straighter and Elizabeta looked over to see two smartly dressed men walking towards them. They were arguing with each other but stopped as soon as they sat down, plastering fake diplomatic smiles onto their faces. They exuded pure smarmy businessman “charm”, enough to make Elizabeta feel a little ill.

“Alfred, how good to see you again! I trust your flight went well?” Arthur questioned. If anything, his accent was a little  _ too  _ posh, and Elizabeta started to wonder if it was real at all. Or maybe he actually was English, but from somewhere with an atrocious accent, and he faked his speech to make himself seem more likable. Whatever it was, Alfred didn’t seem to notice. 

He complained about the flight, alleging that  _ “it would have been better if the flight attendants showed some T and A”  _ which made Arthur's nose crinkle in poorly disguised disgust. Francis coughed behind his hand before attempting to change the subject. 

“Very well, Alfred. I am sure you are wanting to speak more about your contract though, now that you are here and settled.” Always the master manipulator, Francis swiftly drew Alfred's attention to something more entertaining. Money. 

“Hell yeah, dude! Let’s get this show on the road, what are you willing to give to me? It better be good, because daddy wants to buy himself something shiny. Oh, and a dinner for the lady.” Alfred nudged Elizabeta and wiggled his eyebrows. She glared at him and took over the negotiations.

“How much are we making for this tournament? And are we being paid per match, or over all?”

The two men, obviously glad at not having to deal with Alfred anymore, slid a contract over the desk and in front of Elizabeta. At first glance it was the same as any other sponsorship. The Americans had worked with Global TV before, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary. However, as she looked a little closer it was evident to Elizabeta that they were paying significantly less than they usually do. 

“What’s with the pay drop? You never go this low, not even for amateurs.” 

Francis and Arthur looked at each other nervously. 

“Well, we are a global company, you see…” Francis started lamely, his accent thickening with awkwardness. He thought he could play off the situation with feigning a language barrier, though all parties knew he spoke fluent English. 

Arthur huffed, “look, we cant look like we’re playing favourites with the Americans because that would spark more outrage from the East. We needed to cut your contract to preserve unbiased relations with both sides. It was either this or we pulled out entirely.”

“That’s such bullshit, you’re just playing into the lies of those fuckin’ Commie journalists!” Alfred slammed his hand down onto the table. “You expect us to believe this crap?” Clearly looking for someone to back him up, Alfred gestured to Elizabeta who sat there silently. She understood exactly why they were doing what they were doing, and she knew there was nothing to be done about it. It was just the world they lived in now. 

“I think you should take the contract.”

“What? No. That’s not going to happen, Liz.”

“Alfred, you don’t understand what’s going on just please sign it. We can renegotiate payment later after you win. But for now, this is better than nothing. We don't want politics getting in the way of this tournament."

“Fuckin’...fine. Whatever. It’s still bullshit.” Alfred signed the contract and put down the pen harder than normal. Sensing that it was their time to go, lest they faced the infamous “Jones meltdown”, Francis and Arthur took their leave. 

“I am very sorry about this Alfred, but don’t let it impact your game. This is too important for you to let your emotions get the best of you.” 

Alfred bounced back with surprising speed. “Don’t worry about it Liz, I’m not mad!” He smiled, but under the surface of that smile was something dangerous. Elizabeta could see the wheels in his brain turning, but she couldn’t call him out on something he hadn’t done yet. She knew she had to wait. “I’ll show them a match so intense they’ll be forced to hand over all of their cash. And then we’re golden, alright?” 

She smiled back, wearily. “Alright.”

  
  
  


Ivan Braginsky sat, somewhat ironically and entirely silently, in his hotel room on the very West side of the building. His Second, Yekaterina Braginskaya, opened her suitcase only to see that the chess board was gone. 

“Not like you’ll need it,” she scoffed. “that Alfred Jones is sure to lose. Have you seen the group he travels with? It’s a surprise they managed to get here. Typical Americans, so concerned with their entourage rather than what really matters. I doubt he even remembered to practice.”

Ivan wasn’t so quick to jump to conclusions. He had studied Alfred for months after winning the semi-final that allowed him to finally face the champion. While his personality was nothing to sing praises over, his playing technique was unlike anything Ivan had ever faced before. Regardless of his rag-tag ensemble, Alfred was surely a man to be feared over the chess board. 

“But just to be sure, you remember what we discussed earlier, yes? I oversaw the hiring of this year's Arbiter and I happen to know that he is particularly fond of American money. I am sure he would be willing to turn a blind eye to any “accidents” that may occur this week if you were to slip him-”

At this, Ivan decided to finally speak up. “I am not cheating to win. I can do this on my own, with my own skill, and my own integrity.”

“Integrity? I can assure you those American pigs are not worried about integrity. I mean really, Ivan, you won’t need skill against that man, he’s a lunatic.”

“Yes, but he’s a brilliant lunatic. You can’t know which way he’ll go next. His every move is unpredictable, and yet he continues to crush the competition. I assure  _ you  _ that he is in full control the whole time. How else could he be the champion? How else could he be champion for so long? In this situation is it not a logical conclusion to make that he is in fact very sane, and you have all had the wool thrown over your eyes? He revitalized chess with this technique, but I can beat him if you just leave me be and let me practice.” 

Ivan was not a man who blew up so easily. The fact that such a small comment made him so angry was cause enough for Kat to silence her comments. “Fine. I will get you a new board, but don’t forget how important this tournament is. The world is watching. Make sure they see you win.” She closed the door behind her, her words bouncing off the walls. 

Yekaterina’s suitcase laid open on the bed as Ivan went to open his own. He pulled out the “missing” chess board and began to set up a match on the table. Ivan supposed that Second’s were supposed to look out for their partners, but he knew that Kat didn’t care about him at all. All she cared about was winning, and what winning meant for the country. Regardless of her intentions, sometimes it was easier to send her on an errand than pretend to listen to her drivel. She may think she was in control, but she listened to Ivan's every command without hesitation, so who really had the upper hand?

The king grew warm in Ivan's hand. Did he really have as much control as the thought? He had sold out his dreams long ago to get to where he wanted to be. Now that he was here, about to face the biggest match of his career, he felt more hollow than ever. Ivan had a prickling feeling that there was always going to be someone behind him just waiting for him to fall. And then what? Would it have been worth it? 

He realized that the only person he knew from the whole Soviet embassy was Yekaterina. All these people in Italy, for him, and yet he hardly knew them. When all this was said and done, would Ivan really have made any progress at all? It made his head hurt to think about, and he tried to focus on the game in front of him. 

He only wondered if Alfred had the same worries he did. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey yall! Welcome to chapter one of my Hetalia Chess!AU. Because apparently if i'm not writing actual fanfic for the musical, i'm writing crossovers. I'm using this space make some stuff more clear, as well, i'm going to be putting what songs take place during the chapters. You can totally read this fanfic without knowing the musical, but i highly suggest giving it a listen. I love it so much.  
> The playlist i am using for the story is this one:  
> https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=OLAK5uy_nCRkf168HNIbNDWJJzTGwcbj1W-y-A_sI
> 
> Okay so first, characters:  
> Freddie=Alfred  
> Anatoly=Ivan  
> Florence=Elizabeta  
> Walter=Arthur and Francis  
> Molokov=Yekaterina  
> Svetlana=Natalia (in this fic she is NOT Ivans wife. She is his estranged sister)
> 
> Songs for the chapter:  
> Merano / What a Scene! What a Joy!  
> Commie Newspapers  
> Press Conference  
> Molokov and Anatoly  
> Where I Want to Be


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a moment, the chess world was rocked to its core. They knew Jones was notorious for being a loud mouth, but he had never done something like this before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not much to say here! just a little note that i use 'Russian', 'Soviet', and 'USSR' interchangeably, which i know is not technically correct but it's just easier for me to write, so i hope you will overlook it.
> 
> Songs for this chapter:  
> The Merchandisers  
> Difficult and Dangerous Times  
> Chess Game #1  
> Quartet (A Model of Decorum and Tranquility)  
> Nobody's Side

Ivan would have a chance to see for himself, as it seemed they were doomed to interact the night before the first match.

That night there was a press conference and then a dinner, meant for the two sides to scout out their competition as well as for the merchandisers to shill out their products. Apparently, chess was the fashionable game of the season.

Yekaterina guided Ivan around the room with her hand on the small of his back, like one would an impetuous child. He didn’t mind very much, however, because it meant less unexpected socialization. Ivan much preferred that Kat took over; she was always better with words. 

On the other side of the room Alfred was feeling the same. Elizabeta had her arm linked through his and she led Alfred through swarms of sponsors and elitists. It was packed in the moderately sized hall and Alfred wondered why this tournament, of all others, was so fascinating to the media. 

Well, aside from the obvious connotations of a literal game of chess between the East and West. 

From across the room Alfred met eyes with the man everyone was saying would be his downfall. Suddenly he was filled with an inexplicable urge to show off just how little he cared about his competition. Call it ego, call it self-doubt, but Alfred was about to show everyone who was boss, starting with the Russian. He slipped away from Liz, who was in the middle of a heated discussion about the ethicality of the media, and made his way over to the taller man. Ivan stared at the oncoming storm and tried to sip his drink so as not to look like he was dreading the interaction. 

He stopped just in front of Ivan, a little too close for it to be normal. This was obviously the American way of establishing dominance. Ivan tried to recall what the term was for it. ‘Puffing up’? That sounded right. 

“Braginsky, yeah? I’m Alfred Jones, but I’m sure you already know that. I bet you’ve read all about me in the little file your handlers gave you,” he huffed out a laugh at his next comment, “I wonder if this is the first time they've let you out in months.” 

If the snort Ivan let out was anything to go by, he was only mildly affected by the comment. It was hardly the worst thing he had heard from a Westerner. What did they know about his life anyways? 

“Nothing to say? Or is your voice another thing they took from you? I apologize for the ignorant Americanism, but I really am curious about just how little freedom you have.” At this, Ivan furrowed his eyebrows. What was Alfred’s goal here? If it was to intimidate his rival, it wasn’t working. His insults lacked the finesse that Americans were supposedly so good at. 

“And you would know much about freedom, wouldn’t you, American?” The Russian accent forced out the ‘i’ sound more like an ‘e’ sound, which made Alfred only laugh a little harder. 

“They don’t call us ‘land of the free’ for nothing, Big Red.” 

“Of course they don’t. You people care so much about what others think of you, is it not exhausting fighting each other for the top spot?”

“There’s always going to be a winner, dude. And why not me? I fight for myself, because the only person I need to look out for is myself.”

“And is that why you are here with me? Why not go push your ‘charm’ on any of the investors? I’m sure they would be more than willing to throw their money at a sure ‘winner’. Or could it be that you do not have as much control as you think you do? Much to think about, Alfred.” Ivan smiled behind his glass as he took another sip. It was too easy to talk circles around this man. He was clearly only good at the game play aspect of chess, and not the intelligence behind it. 

“I’ve got people to do that for me. And, uh, if I’m being honest, I’m not much for stuffy dinners and politics. It’s all too boring for me. I’d much rather be in my room, preparing to kick your ass.” Alfred supplemented his commentary with wild hand gestures, concluding with him slapping his fist like a stereotypical jock. 

“I must agree with you there. These types of events they’re...well, they are not as useful as practicing would be.” 

“I second that. Speaking of Second, mine looks like she’s going to blow a gasket if I talk to you for much longer. I’ll see you tomorrow then, yeah? Try to practice before then, I know you’ll need it.” Alfred picked up two drinks from the table that sat next to them and began his way back to Elizabeta, who looked like she was about to go off on him for wandering off again. 

Ivan shook his head and took another drink. Strange creatures, those Americans. Though, he was sure that their pompous attitudes hid a secret weakness, and Ivan was also sure that he knew what it was. They were more concerned with their reputation than the game in front of them, if he tapped into that weakness, Ivan was a sure champion. 

Meanwhile, Alfred was attempting to soothe Liz’s nerves by telling her that he “cracked the code.” He was positive that Ivan was too focused on one particular thing at one time. If Alfred amped up his unpredictability, Ivan would surely flounder due to his inability to multi-task. 

“And, hey, if all else fails, there’s always my back up plan.” He smiled radiantly, and Elizabeta was too blinded by it to sense the danger that threat posed.

  
  
  


The next day, only a mere four hours before the match was to begin, the American and Russian embassies were discussing game plans, and what exactly they needed to do as politicians to make sure the world knew that they were the strongest. 

Elizabeta, Arthur, and Francis looked snidely over their shoulders and agreed that the Russians were too disorganized and hyper-focused on their man to win. Not to mention the total lack of funding they received. How could Ivan be trained at the highest level if he wasn’t equipped with the best tools?

Not to be outdone, Yekaterina assured her men--in a less than politely-volume of voice--that the American’s fiery words meant nothing if their man couldn’t keep his cool during the match. His passions could only take him so far, and what would he do when met with the steely resolve of a true professional? Surely he would get flustered and make rash, lethal moves.

However, both sides agree that these are very dangerous and difficult times. There is no need to take any of this so seriously. This is merely a friendly game of chess, and it means nothing. 

Just as long as _their man_ wins. 

  
  
  


The match began, and it started as many games of chess had started before. 

That is, it was insanely slow moving until the halfway point, when it became evident that Ivan was triumphing over Alfred. 

Nothing Alfred did was working. It was almost as if Ivan could predict his move before he even thought of what that move may be. Alfred was better at thinking on his toes, but Ivan was forcing him to actually consider strategies that he had never had to face before. It was frustrating, and anybody watching could see that the stress was getting to the champion. Were the Russian’s right? Was Alfred really just a hot-head with good luck? The pressure was building more and more, and Alfred couldn’t take it any more. 

The thing with chess pieces is that they are actually quite fragile. Their wood is not meant to be thrown down roughly, not to mention the board that is already fairly thin. Surely if they were exposed to this type of force, they would split in half almost immediately.

That is why, when Alfred Jones flipped the table that evening, many journalists walked away with splinters in their exposed skin. 

“Fucking bullshit!” He shouted, as he stormed out of the conference hall and into the night. 

For a moment, the chess world was rocked to its core. They knew Jones was notorious for being a loud mouth, but he had never done something like this before. In an instant, the world went back to normal, and Elizabeta ran out of the hall to catch up with him. 

Ivan stayed still. He had not planned for this. Did this mean that he won? Yekaterina ushered him off of the stage and into the back room. The Arbiter followed closely behind them, likely to discuss with Kat what the next move was. Not five minutes later did Elizabeta join them with an embarrassed but determined look on her face. 

“Mr. Jones believes that the Russian competitor was playing ‘distracting mind games’ and he believed the match to be unfair.” She said all of this in a rushed voice, as if she couldn’t really believe it herself. 

Before Yekaterina could say anything, Ivan came back with, “this was clearly a cheap ploy to end the game early as he knew it was not going his way.”

“I do not believe his excuse either. Which is why I am asking you, Mr. Braginsky, to have a meeting with my partner tonight; perhaps you can get his real reasons out of him. He is not speaking to me at the moment. He believes I am working with your embassy and called me a ‘Commie Sympathizer’.” She laughed lamely and trailed off at the end of her sentence, embarrassed to admit such a thing. Ivan wondered why she shared that detail at all. 

“Where would this meeting be?” 

“On top of the mountain, just the two of you. No media or Seconds. I believe that you can appeal to him on an equal level and convince him to continue the match.” 

Ivan pondered this for a moment before deciding that it was in his best interest to make this happen. That match was going his way, after all. If Alfred came back, Ivan could secure this win and he would be one game closer to winning the champion title.

“I will take you up on this meeting. If Alfred feels he is unable to control himself, I may be able to help him regain some control. I will go get ready for our meeting.” The backhanded remarks were not lost on anyone in the room, but there was nothing to be said about them, as Ivan quickly left to go to his hotel room.

Yekaterina nodded approvingly and left with the Arbiter to finish up any loose ends. Elizabeta was left alone, to think about what her life would be like if she worked with someone like Ivan instead of someone like Alfred, who hardly viewed her as a partner. But Ivan was so cold and impersonal, could she really work with someone who wouldn’t treat her as a friend? Maybe, just maybe, Elizabeta wasn’t on anybody's side. 

  
  
  


Later that night, Ivan got off the chairlift and looked out at the sleeping lights of Merano. The top of the mountain was cold and the air was slightly too thin, but Ivan didn’t mind. The cold reminded him of home, and the lack of air would surely help him not lose his mind when he was enlightened as to why Alfred Jones was the biggest asshole in the chess world. 


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t need to relax, I need to figure that man out. Who does he think he is, being an impenetrable wall? He acts all stoic and isn’t even fazed by my game! No, I am not relaxing until I figure out a way to crush him, and his country.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things get SPICY in this chapter. 
> 
> Songs used:  
> Mountain Duet (but only a few lines were used as inspiration)  
> Chess Game #2  
> Florence Quits  
> Pity the Child  
> Anthem

Ivan wondered if Americans made a point out of being late. 

Ten minutes passed from the meeting deadline. Then fifteen. Then forty five. Ivan was used to life being unfair towards him, but even a man as composed as himself would start to lose his cool eventually.

Maybe Alfred had declined to meet with him, and Ivan would wait on the mountain for hours before somebody remembered he was up there.  _ Well,  _ he decided,  _ if I die, it’ll be that stupid mans fault, and they’ll have to take his crown away.  _

This got Ivan pondering even further. Why would Alfred do something like what he did that night? It was only the first match, and it wasn't like he had a perfectly clear record. Even champions lose single matches sometimes. So what made this one any different? He turned the thoughts around in his head until he found matching pieces. 

Could it be that Alfred was embarrassed to lose to a Russian? Was his American ego so enormous that he couldn’t bear the thought of losing even one single match to ‘the enemy’? If so, that was surely something that could get him disqualified. 

Ivan felt himself getting more and more distressed with every second that passed. This tournament was vital to not only his career, but to the nation as a whole. It was detrimental that he won, and the more time that passed where he wasn’t winning was more time passed that the USSR was being judged. At times, Ivan couldn't stand the pressure put onto him by his nation. He was scared to admit it, but sometimes he just wished for some freedom. They needed this win though,  _ Ivan  _ needed this-

“Oh, hey dude, I didn’t think you would show up.”

Ivan spun around at the new voice on the mountain and snapped, “why the  _ fuck  _ would you pull such a stupid stunt?”

Alfred's eyes widened in shock and he put his hands up defensively. “Woah dude, I literally just got here, what’s your deal?”

“My deal is that you threw a typical American tantrum and ruined the match. Don’t you understand how important this game is?”

Alfred rolled his eyes and gestured angrily, “I’m the fucking champion, bud, _every_ match is important. The difference between you and I is that I don’t have to worry about it all the time because I don't have the government up my ass threatening to kill me if I lose!”

“Of course you would think that is what is happening. Your ignorance is astounding. The only thing I care about is playing the best chess I can, which is clearly something you don’t share with me considering the spectacle you put on today.”

“Oh, please. Don’t talk to  _ me  _ about spectacles, you were clearly cheating.”

Ivan huffed and shook his head. “You are only saying that because you were losing. If this is all this meeting is going to be, us talking in circles, I see no reason for us to continue this short discussion.”

“Fine then. The match can continue, and we don’t have to be friends.”

“I never wanted us to be ‘friends’, that was your Seconds idea. Do you remember her? The one you called a ‘Commie Sympathizer’?”

Alfred was shocked that Ivan knew about his earlier insult and he started to deflate. “It was just a heat of the moment thing; I told her I was sorry right after I said it…is she mad?”

“No. It seems she’s hardly fazed by these things. I only wonder what else you have called her for her to become so complacent. Is your ego so fragile that you must take your frustrations out on a woman who cares enough about you to defend you even after you abuse her? If so, you are no man, Alfred Jones.”

His fist pulled back instinctively and Alfred prepared himself to meet Ivan’s square jaw. But before he could even swing at the other man, using his height and strength to his advantage, Ivan clasped onto Alfred's wrist and crowded close to him. Their noses touched and Ivan bared his teeth with his final blow. 

“Perhaps I should show her what playing for the best is really like. Goodnight."

Satisfied that he got the last word and slightly embarrassed at losing his cool, Ivan began his walk down to the chairlift. Alfred was left standing there, dumbstruck at how little control he had over the situation. He was flustered, angry, and--if he’s being honest--completely turned on. 

Alfred had what some would call ‘masochistic tendencies’. It’s why he chose to compete in the nichest field he could find, and why he continued to do it even after his father made his disgust clear. It is why his Second was a woman who would whip him into shape whenever he (usually on purpose) stepped out of line. 

And it is why he stood on the mountain thinking only of sharp teeth and warm breath on his face. Alfred shook his head to clear the thoughts away. There was no time for this revelation, he had a game to win. 

  
  
  


The match continued the next day, albeit with less pomp and circumstance than the day before. Alfred sheepishly took his place back on the stage and the pieces were set up as they were before his little outburst. Suddenly he remembered how cornered he was and he began to stress once again. It didn’t help that his head was swimming with guilt over what he said to Elizabeta, the selfish need to impress Global TV, and weird feelings for the man across from him who was seconds away from sealing his fate.

And then, “Match one goes to Mr. Braginsky” echoed through the hall, and the game was over. Alfred looked down at the board only to see, plain as day, how far behind he had fallen.

The press swarmed Ivan, and Alfred was pulled off of the stage by Elizabeta, who was muttering comforting words to him. 

“It’s only game one, and you’re obviously stressed so why don’t you just go back to your room and relax?”

“I don’t need to relax, I need to figure that man out. Who does he think he is, being an impenetrable wall? He acts all stoic and isn’t even fazed by my game! No, I am not relaxing until I figure out a way to crush him, and his country.”

“Come  _ on,  _ Alfred, you’re blowing this out of proportion it’s  _ one game _ -”

He spun around on his heel and poked a finger at Elizabeta’s chest, “maybe it’s ‘just one game’ for you, and maybe you’re fine with being a fucking loser, but I’m not, so hop off my dick.” 

Elizabeta stepped back and took a deep, calming breath. With her eyes closed and hands clasped she looked like the face of pure serenity. 

Then, she slapped the shit out of Alfred. Twice. 

“I am  _ sick  _ of you always dragging me through the mud for  _ your  _ mistakes! I didn’t lose that match  _ you did!  _ But you never want to admit when you’re wrong, you just deflect and place all of the blame on me, but I have had it. I’m done. Find yourself a new Second. Maybe I can finally find someone who is actually good at what they do, and not just fronting. It’ll be nice to play for the best for once. 

The use of Ivan's earlier words rang loud and hard through Alfred's ears. Surely it was just a coincidence, but they hurt nonetheless. Alfred turned around to see Elizabeta slamming the door behind her and he realized just how badly he had fucked up. 

Another thing he realized was that he was completely alone. Elizabeta was his only confidant, the only other person (aside from Ivan, who was not an option) at this tournament who truly understood just how important this game was. Alfred began to spiral. his head was too full of guilt and shame. He suddenly knew what he had to do. He quickly looked around the room Liz pulled him into. He needed paper and a pen and he needed them now before he lost his nerve and his inflated pride swallowed him again. Somewhere along the way he lost his passion for the one thing he loved, and he vowed to never let go of it again. 

If Alfred Jones could not enjoy the only thing that made him happy, then he was no longer fit to be champion of that thing. 

  
  
  


One day later, with no word from Elizabeta since her departure, Alfred delivered his letter to the Arbiter, packed up his bags, and got on a plane back home. The letter was short, and it detailed Jones’ intentions to abdicate his title to whoever wanted to take it. If his outburst was out of character, this was practically unheard of for the man. Alfred Jones? Up and quitting after one game? Many considered this to be an effect of some sort of Russian blackmail that they were holding against him. The media ran wild with rumours on what happened, and why his Second was still in Merano when Jones was nowhere to be found. But, with no man around to give the answers, the press quickly grew bored and moved on with their lives. 

Ivan was offered the title of champion, which Yekaterina immediately accepted on his behalf (though, he was standing right beside her and could have answered for himself). He should have been elated that victory came so easily to him, but Ivan was filled with dread over going home so soon. He had the thought that maybe he could just stay here, or the town over, or anywhere. Russia had been all he had known ever since he was born, and the thought of something more being out there was too tempting for him to resist. He was enticed by the thought of just once, having no pressure put on him. Much like Alfred had left without telling anyone, Ivan packed up his bags and quietly slipped out of his hotel room, only 24 hours after his rival had done the same thing. Defecting from the USSR was not something to be taken lightly, and Ivan was determined to slip into the shadows for at least a year while he figured out his bearings.

That is, that was the plan, until he bumped into none other than Arthur Kirkland two steps out of his hotel room. 

Arthur took in the man in front of him and his eyes widened, “are you?-” he started, but Ivan clamped a hand over his mouth. 

“If you tell anyone you saw me, I will turn you over to the KGB so fast you won't have time to kiss your little Frenchman goodbye.” 

Arthur gulped and peeled the hand away. He laughed nervously, “I-I’ll do you one better. I have a second home in Brighton, you can stay there as long as you need.”

This was suspicious, and Ivan knew it. “Why would you do this? What do you gain out of this?” 

“Is it not enough to want to help out your fellow man?”

“No, it is not. But I cannot see how much damage a man like you could do to me, so I will accept.” 

Arthur visibly deflated with relief, and he wrote down the address of the house on a piece of paper that he gave over to Ivan. 

Ivan nodded and whispered down the hall. For a man so large he was certainly good at benign quiet when he needed to. Arthur was just relieved that he managed to make it out of that situation alive. He did not expect to be greeted by the Russian while he was on his way to Francis’ room. However, as soon as he saw Ivan he sensed an opportunity for a big scoop. He quickly made his way to his destination so he could tip off every journalist in the hotel. 

Hey, he never actually promised anything about telling anyone. It’s not his fault Ivan didn’t notice that little detail. Besides, the man was intimidating enough that nobody would try and do anything to him. 

  
  
  


The next morning, Elizabeta was looking for Ivan when a group of reporters pushed past her. Curious as to what could be so exciting, and hopeful that perhaps Alfred had come back to apologize, she followed them. However, what she saw was far more bizarre than anything she could have imagined. 

Ivan had defected from the USSR, and had left a note pinned to the doors of the hotel. 

_ You are all wondering how I could leave my country behind. But where do I start? Instead, I will tell you that while I may cross over borders my heart is still there. I will return in one year to defend my title. Until then, I will be somewhere nobody can find me.  _

_ Your Champion, Ivan Braginsky _

Ivan had a feeling that Arthur would tell everyone he was leaving, so he slipped out long before anyone could learn the news.

His letter made headlines, and the media was in more of a frenzy than they had been when Alfred had left. Elizabeta read it over and over again, not quite believing his words. Was Ivan truly so unhappy in Russia? 

Arthur slipped behind her and looked over her shoulder. “Quite an interesting man, is he not?”

His voice was thick with knowledge and Elizabeta narrowed her eyes. “What do you know?”

“I only know that there might be a certain champion requesting your aid, if you are interested.” 

She looked down at the letter in her hands and smiled. “I just might be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is the end of act one! I'm warning you all now, there is going to be a significant time skip starting next chapter. Also I'm sorry about there being not a lot of romance in this first act, there weren't many places for me to fit it in. I hope you all enjoyed Alfred's h*rny moment on the mountain though lmao. See you soon.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another country, another shitty hotel to make shady deals in. That was the life of a media man, Alfred supposed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo, what up time skip.
> 
> Songs used:  
> One Night in Bangkok  
> The Interview  
> The Deal (No Deal) -(only a few lines, more of this next chapter lol)

Bangkok is very, very hot this time of year.

Alfred would know this, as one year after his mysterious disappearance that sparked Ivans equally mysterious defection, he sat in a Bangkok restaurant with a pen between his teeth. Global TV offered him a job shortly after he returned home (though, how Arthur got his number he isn’t very sure) and he had been taking little reporting jobs here and there to pay the bills. Life was a series of one minute stories and non-issues; Alfred wasn’t veteran enough to report on anything of substance. Until now. 

Because now, Ivan Braginsky was set to come out of hiding and defend his crown. Yekaterina, his old Second, had been preparing a new hot-shot protege, Feliks Łukasiewicz. Rumours flew around that Ivans new second was none other than Elizabeta, the woman who walked out on Alfred one year ago. If that wasn’t spicy news, Alfred didn’t know what was. 

Not that Alfred was actually paying attention to the news, anyways. He definitely did not care about what either of those two got up two. Or, at least he didn’t care until he was offered the job of reporting on the story. Suddenly, he was dragged back into the chess world and all of the politics surrounding it. 

But above all, Alfred was here for a paycheque and a good time. That was it, he thought, as he sipped on his coffee and noticed the not-so-subtle tea girls sidling up to men who sat alone. He had already shooed them off once, but he felt that they would be persistent until he left. People like that wouldn’t understand chess, let alone the importance of this tournament. Thank god he was only watching the game this time, controlling it. This time the tournament would be cut and dry for Alfred Jones.

  
  
  


“You’re being stubborn.”

“I am not _stubborn_ _ ,  _ Ivan, I’m practical! That strategy is safe, yes, but you aren’t here to be flashy, you’re here to win. Do you think Feliks will care about you showing off? He’s going to wipe the floor with you if you don’t focus.” 

Elizabeta was practically tearing out her hair with frustration as Ivan obstinately pretended she didn’t exist. To an outsider, it would look as if the two were like water and oil, doomed to never work together. However, there was a method to their madness. Ivan Braginsky and Elizabeta Héderváry had taken the chess world by storm, and while Ivan had not technically played any games since his defection, it was no secret to the public that he was stronger than ever, all thanks to his new second. The two were an unstoppable duo, and the media was itching to see how they would fare against the newest golden boy of chess.

Their secret? Soul crushing stress. 

Ivan tapped his fingers rhythmically against the top of his chess board case, “I know you are only trying to help, but unless Natalia sees me in my element she will take me with her. She needs to be fully convinced of my place on top. Nothing else will satisfy her.” 

Inside Ivans suitcase sat a letter, crumpled from multiple readings, from his once-estranged-now-entirely-too-interested sister, Natalia. She had forced herself back into his life in a desperate attempt to bring him home, likely having been contracted by government officials. In this letter she threatened to show up at the final match if he did not lose and return to the USSR. The current plan was to convince her of his immense skill so that she would see that he was better off not in Russia. This was easier said than done. 

“You won't have a place on top if you lose in the first game because you’re too busy showing off, and not focusing on winning.” 

Ivan opened his mouth to respond when there was a sharp knock on the door, and another letter was slipped through the mail slot on the hotel door by the postman, “Natalia again?” 

Elizabeta paused, brows drawn together, “No, actually, it’s from Kat.” 

“Kat? Let me see that.” Ivan stood from his chair and crossed the tiled floor.

Liz handed the paper over and bit her thumbnail nervously, “what could she possibly have to say to you?”

The words gave Ivan pause before he ultimately rolled his eyes and tossed it aside, “she claims to fear for her life, but I am calling her bluff. I am not so important that the mysterious men in black would kill a woman I no longer associate with. Likely, she is employed by them, and will get a reward from my return.” 

“Do you really think she would do that?”

“Yekaterina would do anything to stay in the spotlight. But I assure you, I will never fall for her tricks again. I have no intention of leaving, I promise.” 

Elizabeta let out a shaky breath, slightly worried for her own safety, but deciding to take Ivans word at face value for now, “of course Ivan, I trust you.”

And she did. Over the course of their year working together, the two had become close friends. She only hoped they were close enough for him to not bend to Yekaterinas will,

  
  
  


Another country, another shitty hotel to make shady deals in. That was the life of a media man, Alfred supposed. Currently he sat at a wooden table, the varnish peeling off at the corners, with his ever so lovely bosses. 

“This place is disgusting, could they not afford to send us anywhere nicer?” Francis drawled. Arthur rolled his eyes and argued back. 

“Of course not, you fop, now can we get to discussing things of real importance?” 

Francis huffed and flipped his hair over his shoulder non-committedly. That was the only answer Arthur was going to get, so he carried on. 

“Alfred, we have learned that an interview is going to be airing on TV this evening, and we would like you to be the interviewer.” He flashed his most charming  _ (more like sinister)  _ smile while revealing as little information as possible. 

Alfred was eating up exactly none of it, “an interview? I have no training, so why me-?" Realization dawned on his face before changing to steely resolve, "it's with Ivan, isn't it? Absolutely not. I don’t care how good the story will be, I don’t need him interfering with my life any more than he already has.” Arthurs smile faltered. 

“I never said it was going to be with Ivan, did I?” 

“Oh yeah? You expect me to believe it’s with anyone else? I’m not doing it.” 

Arthur snapped, “you’ll do it if I say you’ll do it, This isn’t your decision to make, Jones.”

“Why me? I haven’t done anything like this before. It seems like a waste of a good airing time.”

“Because the higher ups said so, and because I said so, and because  _ you don’t have a choice in the matter!  _ Be ready at nine, it’s at the conference hall. Show up, or I will drag you there myself, so help you god.” Arthur pushed out of his chair, face red, and slammed the door when he crossed through it. Francis barely glanced up from where his head was leaning against his hand. Clearly he was used to the rage of his colleague. 

“Angleterre is just stressed, so don’t mind his little tantrum. But you do need to go, and I don’t want to hear any arguments. This is good for your career, Alfred.” Francis walked calmly out of the room and Alfred sat in stunned silence. 

_ Was that supposed to be some sort of ‘good cop, bad cop’ situation? Or was Arthur really that screechy when he was stressed?  _

On the surface it made sense, Alfred was Ivans past rival, of course he should be the one to interview him. But nothing about the rest of the situation made sense, like his lack of interview training beforehand, and on top of the obvious pressure being put on Arthur and Francis from  _ someone _ , Alfred was more suspicious than ever. 

It was obvious that this trip wasn’t going to be as cut and dry as he first thought. 

  
  
  


By eight thirty that evening, Alfred was thoroughly powdered and ready for the cameras. If he never saw a makeup brush again, it would be too soon. He was seated on the chair placed on the right, with the other chair on the stage still empty. That wasn’t a problem though, because Alfred was none too eager to see Ivan again, and forced small talk would only make their situation worse. 

He was given strict instructions, to ask only the questions on the cards, and nothing more. If Ivan resists, just move on. Totally not suspicious at all. 

Backstage, Ivan stood off to the side, waiting until the very last moment to walk on stage for similar reasons as Alfred did. Liz was told that unless she was a Global worker or someone being interviewed, she wasn’t allowed backstage. This alarmed Ivan slightly, but mostly because he was not fully comfortable facing Alfred without any support on stand-by. After learning who he would be interviewed by, Ivan was immediately suspicious of what was going on. He knew that some powerful people wanted him to return home, but how exactly was Alfred Jones supposed to aid in that? And why would he agree to it? Liz was the only other person who knew Alfred well enough to possibly answer those questions, but he would have to wait to pick her brain.

The voice of a woman broke him out of his thoughts,”Ah, Ivan! I hope you are doing well these days."

“Yekaterina, I am surprised you are allowed back here. Not even my own second was permitted access,” he spun around to see her wry smile, not at all actually surprised to see her there. He smelled shady dealings from a mile away, and Kat was the shadiest of them all. 

“Well, let us just say that I have special permission, yes? If I may, I believe that you should be thrilled at who your interviewer is. The chair is filled by none other than a long standing friend of yours, is it not? This should be an interesting scenario."

“I wouldn’t exactly call him a friend,” Ivan muttered and checked his watch. 8:50. Time to go. He walked out, leaving Kat and her smug smiles for another day. 

The artificial lights were blinding and entirely too white for Ivan to see anything other than what was directly in front of him. He sat down, avoiding eye contact with Alfred, who seemed content to do much the same. Ivan was having a hard time picturing Alfred as anything other than a cocky chess player, the sudden change to journalist was uncomfortable to think about. A countdown began by one of the camera men. On TV, people would be hearing a host introduce them before cutting to the feed on the stage. 

“..2..1..”

_ “Action!” _

Alfred snapped into perfection, “Well Ivan, here we are face to face once again, for the first time since...for the first time since last year.”

“By any standards, this is a bizarre reunion, yes,” Ivan caught the way Alfred tripped over his words, and hurried to not think about their last meeting. 

“Yes, it truly is. Tell me, how is being homeless affecting your game?” 

_ What? _

“I wouldn’t know, as I do have a home, in England.” What kind of question was that? Ivan was now pondering the ethicality of such a thing.

“No no, by ‘home’ I mean a real home. The place where your family is.” 

Ah, so he was part of the scheme as suspected, but why?, “England is my real home,” Ivan answered indignantly.

“Of course, of course,” Alfred flipped to a different question card, “what are your latest political aims?”

“What are you saying? How is this relevant to-?”

“I’m talking about your Anti-Russian crusade, Ivan. Has it worked for you?”

“I’m no crusader-”

“Then what is your true motivation? We all want to know,” Alfred became ruthless and relentless with his questioning. Ivan pushed himself out of the chair by its arms.

“You know damn well what my motivation is, Jones,” he went to get in Alfreds face but stopped himself, taking a moment to calm down. Alfred took this opportunity to talk to the audience at home. 

“Here we see a man who is under great pressure! Two fights to fight but look at him! He could not look any fresher. I mean, chess  _ and  _ politics? I tip my hat off to any champion who could manage to pull that off.”

“Can we just talk about chess now?” 

“Is that not what we were doing already? So Ivan, I hear your second controls everything.” 

The mention of Elizabeta made Ivan bristle, “chess is her passion, it’s what she loves.”

“Yes, but her real obsession is East versus West, you know that.” 

“I know that chess is her passion,” Ivan reaffirmed.

“And I know that she has her own axe to grind,” Alfred spat out. That wasn’t on the cards, but he was too angry to care, “what about your dear sister? Aren’t you concerned that she isn’t here?”

How did Alfred know about Natalia? “I don’t discuss details of my private life to the public.”

“Don’t you feel bad that she isn’t by your side?”

“I think I’ve had enough of this discussion, goodbye,” Ivan started to stand up once more, but Alfred stopped him.

“Before you go, we have a little surprise. It’s your sister on video call!”

Ivan looked behind him to the massive screen normally used during matches, to see it flooded with his sister's face. He was furious at how far they had gone, especially at Alfred for being involved in it. He stormed off the stage and pushed back the stage hands who tried to stop him.

“Why don’t we get her version of what life is like since you deserted her!” Alfred turned around to see Ivan had already left. Panic filled him as the interview deteriorated around him, “wait, Ivan! They’re only home movies! Where are you going?” 

Arthur barked at a cameraman to cut the feed and the lights immediately dimmed. Filled with instant disgust at his complicitness, Alfred tore away the microphone and ran off as well. 

Francis slipped in behind where Arthur was seething and clapped him on the back, “great interview, non? I think this will keep the press busy for at least two days.” He chuckled to himself and walked away to grab some set coffee. Arthur groaned, their bosses were going to cut their pay for sure. 

  
  
  


Unbeknownst to Natalia Braginsky, her image had just been flashed all over live television. However, there were far more important things to be worried about, such as how her own life was in great danger if she did not convince her brother to come home. 

“Are you Ivan Braginsky’s sister, by any chance?” an unfamiliar woman questioned. 

“Yes, I am Natalia. I assume you are Yekaterina?”

“That is me. Now, Natalia, you know that we did not bring you here for a simple vacation, correct? You must convince Ivan to throw the match. It is vital that you do this.”

“I understand.”

“If you do not succeed and Ivan wins the tournament, life will become very difficult for you and your family. Talk to him,” Kat turned to leave and concluded, “how many times does he want to be champion anyways?”

  
  
  


Later that night, as Arthur sat at the same peeling table as that morning, he started to wonder why he ever got into the media in the first place. Francis paced back and forth, trying to come up with any sort of solution to the monumental problem dropped into their laps. 

The two returned to their room that night to find a letter addressing them that contained details to an international prisoner trade between the USSR and the United States. It had appeared out of nowhere, with no warning from any of their bosses, and it was the hottest news to ever be in the hands of Global TV, but there were three problems. 

The first problem? They were not allowed to report on it lest they be _taken care of._

The second problem? It was now their job to convince all parties involved in the chess tournament to throw away their careers for a chance of returning many important POWs to their homelands. This crucially involved Ivan Braginsky losing the match, and returning to the USSR. 

And the third problem? One of those prisoners was none other than Elizabeta’s father, who had apparently been taken hostage when she was very young. 

Arthur had never, in his ten years of being a journalist, thought that he would be right in the middle of an international crisis, but there he was. 

“Well, the first thing to do is to tell Ms. Héderváry that her father is alive. That would surely convince her to be on our side, I believe.” 

Francis, always the logical one of the duo, finally sat down and began drafting a letter to give to Elizabeta. Arthur merely stayed silent, with his head in his hands. This was not what he signed up for. 

  
  
  


Later that same night, Elizabeta covered her mouth and choked back a gasp. Her father, alive? Surely it was too good to be true but…

She glanced over to Ivan. If she told him, he would believe her, and throw the match for her sake. He was a good man like that. Was it worth the risk? Frustration tore through her. All she wanted to do was play chess, was there nobody at this conference who wasn’t a politician?

  
  
  


Later that same night, again, Alfred Jones was torn on what to do. He was disgusted at his actions, but what else was he supposed to do? Deep down, he knew there was something much larger at play, but was it worth it to damage Ivan and his family in the process? 

There was one thing Alfred was sure of that night. He needed to swallow his pride and apologize to Ivan for everything. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaa okay so im sorry this took a long time to get out. also, i hope this isnt feeling really jumbled, but at this point in the plot there are like five different plots going on at the same time and idk how else to do it other than random scene changes. um yeah idk when the next chapter will be out but i hope yall enjoy this one.


End file.
